Halloween
by Nimohtar
Summary: OS. On the anniversary of Voldemort's demise, three young wizards find comfort in each other's arms.


Title: Halloween

Author: Nimohtar

Pairing: Harry/Fred/George

Rating: (R)

Warnings: PWP. Smut; threesome; mentions of incest; mentions of blood/gore; torture; angst.

Summary: On the anniversary of Voldemort's demise, three young wizards find comfort in each other's arms.

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

A/N So, this is for Jeli, who asked for a nice, steamy threesome between our favourite twins and our reluctant hero. Alas, Kori and I decided it wasn't really our thing, but Fred and George were more than happy to oblige. XD Besides, we all know three guys are even better than two...

Happy - albeit belated - Samhain everyone!!

**A/N: Just so you know, this is an edited version of the fic, to comply with FFN standards. Complete version is on my yahoo group.**

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Halloween.

The beginning of the season of darkness, when the veil between the worlds is thin; the god has descended into the earth, taking up the mantle of Lord of the Underworld, even as new life grows within the womb of the goddess, ready for the coming spring; a day for honouring the dead, and cleansing the old in preparation for the new.

Halloween.

It was the day that Lord Voldemort was finally defeated by a seventeen-year-old boy, in a pitched battle on the grounds of Hogwarts.

Now, three years later, the crisp October air was rife with the scents of roasting chestnuts, brimming with the happy sound of costumed children as they ran from house to house, shop to shop, on their quest for chocolate and sweets. There were angels and demons, ghosts and fairies; princes, dragons, vampires - every manner of magical beast or being could be seen that night.

Harry moved to the side as another group of children ran by, their harried parents following a moment later, hurrying to catch up with their offspring. He crossed the cobbled road and pushed open the door of a small pub, a sign of a cauldron swinging gently above his head.

The warmth seeped into him immediately, and he sighed, soaking it up, even as he made his way through the crowd inside, towards the back door. His head was lowered, his scarf and coat pulled tight against his face. With his hair and scar covered by a hat, his old glasses replaced with new ones, he knew he would not be recognised. He was in no mood for the reactions of people on seeing the 'great' Harry Potter, now dubbed the Man-Who-Defeated-Voldemort. He reached the door and slipped through, into the empty alleyway beyond, pulling his wand out and tapping the bricks of the back wall. He waited until they melted away, before stepping into Diagon Alley.

Here too, each shop window was decorated, storefronts vying to hold the title of the classiest, the most gruesome, the best designed. After Voldemort's demise, the wizarding world had turned to frivolity in an attempt to forget the horrors of the war, and Harry couldn't blame them. Even three years on he still woke up in the middle of the night, shaking, pale, nightmares flitting behind haunted eyes.

Some nights, most nights, he was afraid to sleep, for fear of what he would see.

After the end of the war, he had left, needing to avoid the fans, the well-wishers, the reporters, and those who blamed him. He had needed to go someplace where he could relax for once in his life, and heal from the injuries sustained during the war; where he could grieve for the ones he had lost. He had sequestered himself away at Godric's Hollow, rebuilding the house that had been destroyed the night his parents died. Only a few people had known where he was, the only ones he had kept in touch with through letters, and infrequent visits that were more cancelled than not. This was the first time he had come to a public place. He blamed it on the sudden feeling of loneliness that had descended upon him on finding some old heirlooms of his family, coupled with the letter he had received from Dumbledore last night.

He wasn't sure what had made him come here, or what he was going to do now, but he supposed it was understandable in a way. Diagon Alley had been his first glimpse of the wizarding world, and though he might have turned his back on it temporarily, it was still his home, and coming back here gave him the sense of starting anew. Ironic really, that he had chosen this night of all nights.

He wandered aimlessly along the pavements, just watching, looking, reacquainting himself with all that he had once known. He recognised the shops along the way: Madam Malkin's, the first place he had met Draco Malfoy; Ollivander's, where he had bought his wand; Quality Quidditch Supplies, where he had had his first taste of flying; the great bank of Gringotts, open even tonight.

He stopped at a street corner, looking up as fireworks shot into the sky, cheers rising from two streets away.

A bittersweet smile crossed his face.

The Wizarding World: a place of wonder and magick; a place of malice and death.

He glanced to his right when he heard loud laughter and the sound of voices, and saw a group of people heading in his direction. He turned away, intending to carry on his reflective exploration of the Alley, but before he could take more than two steps, a heavy object barrelled into him, and he was knocked down to the ground, his breath leaving him in a rush, the back of his head banging down on the cobbled street.

'Oh Merlin! I'm so sorry.'

The person on top of him sat up, and Harry could once again breathe. He felt a pair of hands gripping his arms, pulling him to his feet, another supporting him from behind. He straightened, opening his eyes and lifting his head, only to freeze.

Oh god no...

_...a body lying on the ground, blue eyes wide open, staring, unseeing - _

No.

- _a pale face frozen in a grimace of fear, while red mixed with red on the ground..._

He sucked in a breath, mind returning from the past, back to the present. No, it was the same hair, the same eyes, but not the same boy. His eyes focussed on the two people in front of him. It had only been a second, but a second too long. Two identical expressions of concern morphed into looks of confusion and incredulity.

'Harry?'

His lips twitched into a sickly smile.

'Hello Fred, George.'

He hadn't expected to see anyone here.

He hadn't wanted to.

-/-/-

They had taken him to their shop, or rather the flat above their shop. He couldn't remember if he had known about it or not. He had probably been told, by someone...sometime. It was warm inside; wonderful warmth that pervaded his mind, and soothed the senses. It was the same kind he had felt before, at Hogwarts, or whenever he had visited the Burrow. It felt like home.

The flat was a reasonable size, the front door opening onto the living room. A sofa sat in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace, covered by a knitted blanket; armchairs sat on either side of it. The bookcase to one side was filled with an assortment of books and magazines stacked half-heartedly in some semblance of order. Plants in pots sat here and there around the room, mostly on the windowsills, and there was a table pushed to one side, papers and magical objects scattered over the surface.

While Fred led Harry over to the sofa, pushing him down onto it, and taking his coat, gloves and hat to put away, George went through a door, into the kitchen, coming out a few moments later levitating a tray with cups of hot chocolate, and a plate of biscuits beside them. He set them down onto the small coffee table and sat down in one of the chairs, Fred taking a seat beside Harry. He began to pass out the cups, and Harry took his gratefully.

'It's been a long time, Harry.' George said quietly.

'Yeah.' He murmured.

He knew there would be questions when he returned, so many questions that he didn't want to answer, didn't know how to answer; where did you go? What did you do? Why did you go? Why didn't you come back?

Why, why, why...

He took a sip of his drink.

'Have you told anyone else you're here?'

'No.' He whispered.

Fred nodded.

Why, why, why...

_...a scream cut off in a flash of green...Ginny._

Why, why, why...

_...a broken body lying in the mud...Ron._

Why, why, why...

_...red eyes, high-pitched laughter...Avada Kedavra._

Why, why, why...

Because he couldn't have done anything else…

'I have to go!' He blurted, nearly throwing his cup at the table in his haste to get to his feet, to get away. He tripped over the coffee table, winced as he banged his shin against the corner. He stumbled towards the door, uncaring that he had neither coat, nor hat, nor gloves. He needed to leave, _now._

'Harry, wait!'

He came to a sudden halt three steps from the door, breathing hard, green eyes wide. He felt a gentle touch on his arm, and it was all he could do not to flinch. He didn't turn around.

He had been doing fine. He had come to Diagon Alley, and he had walked down the street, and he had felt _fine_. He had made the decision to come back, and had done just that. It had been three years. He was over it.

Why was it then that he could feel his body trembling?

'Harry? You can't go out like this. Stay here tonight.'

He nodded.

Fred - or was it George? - turned him around, and taking him gently by the arm, led him back into the living room, where he could see George - Fred? - mopping up some of the drink he had spilled.

'Come on. Let's get you out of those clothes.'

He frowned slightly when hands began to tug at the bottom of his jumper, only then noticing that he had managed to spill chocolate all over himself too.

'Harry?'

He lifted his eyes and stared blankly at Fred - ah, it was - and saw his blue eyes fill with worry. He heard him sigh.

'I'm fine.' He whispered.

'No, you're not. Let's get you into the shower.'

Harry followed Fred into the bathroom, watching listlessly as the boy - Merlin, man now, he was older than Harry - set some towels on the counter, and started the water of the shower. He turned back to Harry.

'Will you be able to -'

'I'll manage.'

Fred nodded, making his way over to the door. He stepped out, then turned to look back at Harry, biting his bottom lip slightly.

'Harry -' He stopped, smiling hesitantly. 'Call if you need anything.'

Harry nodded, and then the red-head was gone, leaving Harry alone in the bathroom, the sound of running water behind him. He knew they were talking about him outside. He knew it; just as he knew the sky was blue and his name was Harry Potter...He couldn't bring himself to care.

He took his clothes off, folding them into a neat pile and placing them on the countertop next to the sink. His glasses followed, then his wand, and finally, naked, he stepped into the shower, and let out a quiet sigh as the water began to flow over him. He let his head hang, pressed his hands flat against the tiled wall in front of him, and closed his eyes as the water sluiced down his back, washing away the chocolate, taking away the cold.

He hadn't realised he had felt so cold until now.

Laughter spilled from between his lips, hysterical laughter that bubbled up from inside of him, forcing its way out, feeling like it would never end. His knees buckled, and he slid down the tiled wall, arms wrapping around his stomach, still laughing...

He didn't know how long he stayed in the shower; didn't know how long he sat like that, watching as the water flowed into the drain. It was long enough for the small bathroom to fill with steam. Eventually he stirred, picking up the soap and pouring some into his hands, beginning to wash his body, slowly at first, then harder, faster, as a new emotion gripped him: shame; a hollow, biting shame that ripped at his insides.

How could he have let himself act like that?

How could he have lost it so completely?

The sharp sting of anger that followed took away the last of whatever feeling had taken hold of him before. It burned away at him, a hot flash that left him suddenly calm, as if none of it had ever happened...only it had.

Harry stepped out of the shower, turning off the water before slowly reaching for a towel and drying himself with it, wrapping it around his waist when he was done. He heard a soft knock on the door.

'Harry?'

'You can come in.'

The door opened, and Fred walked in, some clothes folded over one of his arms. He glanced quickly around the bathroom, and then his eyes went to Harry, widening slightly when they caught sight of his chest, and the scar that was emblazoned across it like a spider-web, the centre at his heart, white grooves crossing over and down from it.

'Shit, Harry…'

He managed a crooked smile.

'It's nothing. It doesn't hurt me now.'

It didn't mean it hadn't, before. The shock of casting the Killing Curse on Voldemort had stopped his heart. He'd been lying in the middle of the battle-field, confusion, screams, smoke from spells and fires all around him. He'd been about to die. He would have, if Snape had not appeared, had not torn open his chest, taken his heart in his hand, and pumped it, pouring blood replenishing potions down his throat, keeping him alive, long enough for help to come.

Even after all that they had been through, the man had still saved his life. Harry couldn't remember if he had thanked him or not. After the battle, all he could remember was lying in the hospital wing, Dumbledore's sad blue eyes looking at him, as he told him things he didn't want to hear, didn't want to know.

He had left five days later.

He felt a gentle touch on his arm, and his eyes focused on Fred once more, watching as the red-haired man traced the scar on his chest with fingertips calloused from years of Quidditch. He shivered, sucking in a sharp breath. It was funny, in a way: scars were meant to have no nerves, no feeling; but in his case, for this scar, the opposite was true. He felt _everything_.

He could remember the last time he had been touched by someone other than himself. Just before the battle, a hard fuck against the wall of a dungeon classroom, getting pounded into by none other than Draco Malfoy. It turned out they had more in common than they had first thought, as hatred and anger was substituted by heat and passion. There had never been love; they weren't made for that. Just two frightened boys, wanting to prove that they were alive.

The Slytherin had survived the battle. Harry had never seen him again.

'Harry?'

He bowed his head, stepping closer, leaning into the touch of Fred's hand. His own arms twitched up, fingers gripping the other man's arms forcefully. He looked up, green eyes serious.

'Please.'

'What -?'

Harry's hands tightened, and he jerked Fred closer to him, smashing his lips to the other's, cutting off his words. There was little finesse, just a driving force as he pressed forward, wanting, craving a response. Fred tensed up, and tore his mouth away, eyes wide as he looked at Harry, breath coming in and out in short, sharp pants. Harry flinched, stepping back and turning away, one hand rising to cover his eyes.

'I'm so sorry.' He whispered.

A hand closed around his wrist, pulling his hand down. He looked up, and Fred tugged him closer, his lips meeting Harry's once more. They were soft, so soft, coaxing his lips open, letting a hot tongue sweep over his. He lifted his hands and wrapped them around Fred's neck, and heard the clothes drop to the floor as the red-head did the same, strong arms holding him close, pulling him further into the warmth of his body.

They broke away.

'Do you want this?'

He answered by bringing their lips together again in a short, brutal kiss.

'Then come.'

Fred took his hand, leading him out of the bathroom, and into the bedroom. There was a large double bed in the middle of the room, bedside cabinets on either side. A large chest of drawers was pushed against the wall on one side, a wardrobe on the other. There were clothes strewn here and there, over chairs, books and other trinkets cluttered almost every flat surface. The room was done in light shades of yellow and white, hints of colour in the coverlets and the curtains.

George was making the bed when they came in, and looked up with a puzzled expression. He glanced over to Fred, and a silent conversation passed between them; sentences, arguments that occur with just one look. Such had always been the way between the two boys. Harry didn't know what had been decided, but as Fred let go of his hand and went to shut the door of the room, George stopped what he was doing and came over to stand before Harry. He leaned forward slightly, slowly, his breath just warming Harry's face. Harry frowned in confusion, only to be startled as a pair of arms slid around him from behind. His eyebrows rose as he realised what they were doing. They were waiting to see how he would react; to see if he would want this. They were waiting to see if he would want them both.

His mouth twitching into a smile, Harry leant back against Fred, even as he reached out for George in front of him. He saw the red-head grin widely as he complied, stepping into the circle of Harry's arms, bending down to kiss him. It was different to kissing Fred; different, and yet at the same time, so eerily the same. The mouth was the same; the lips the same shape, apart from a small scar just at the corner of his mouth; barely noticeable when looking, but obvious when kissing, in the way that the small rough edge grazed along his lips. The taste was different too. Whereas Fred had tasted of something darker, smokier, George's taste was sharper, more like a citrus fruit than anything else. It wasn't bad, just...different.

He moaned into the warm cavern of his mouth when all of a sudden, Fred's hands rose to his chest, to brush over his nipples, his scar, over and down his chest to rest on his hips. He heard him chuckle behind him, before his voice began to whisper in his right ear.

'So, Harry. Do you think you can take -'

' - both of us, at the same time?' George finished to his left.

Harry shuddered, pupils dilating in desire. He heard the two men chuckle on either side of him, before with a sharp tug from in front, and a short shove from behind, he went sprawling across the bed, Fred and George landing beside him. The former began to assault his mouth once more, in long, drawn-out kisses, while the latter removed the towel around his waist.

He was lost.

-/-/-  
**(edited)**

It had been a long time since he had last done this -

_Three years_, his mind whispered. _Three years to this very day._

- but he could still remember the feeling if being taken; it didn't matter if it was hard, near-brutal, on the borders between pleasure and pain, or slow, gentle, leaving him sobbing and pleading for release; he loved it all - _had­ _loved it all. He wanted it again - wanted it so much that it was a tangible ache inside of him.

He had no time to think about anything, could only feel. It was a first for him. The way they used him was merciless torment; sweet pleasure with an underlying hint of something dark, forbidden.

It was pain, and yet not the same he had experienced before; this pain was intoxicating, reminding him just what it was to live again. It was nothing like the hollow aches of remembered loss, or the sharp, never-ending pain of the curses the Death Eaters and Voldemort had liked to use. Harry supposed that by now he must be an expert on pain. Somehow, the thought wasn't as comforting as it had once been. He didn't find it amusing any longer; instead it made him want to weep...but he had done too much of that in his life. He had had just cause.

Besides, now was not the time to think of such things.

Soon, he felt wonderfully numb, sleep creeping along the edges of his vision. He vaguely felt Fred lay him down and tuck him under the covers, while George whispered another cleansing charm to banish the sticky mess that likely covered them all. Already dozing, he heard someone whisper '_nox_', and then two bodies joined him under the covers, one on each side, arms wrapping around him and pulling him close. He felt someone press a soft kiss to his forehead. A soft smile stretched his face. He should have felt claustrophobic, he knew, with the two of them so close. He had felt trapped for far less since _then_, but instead he felt...safe.

Warm.

Protected.

Maybe tonight he would be free of dreams.

And maybe tomorrow he would learn to live again.

After all, the next day was the beginning of a whole new year.

- FIN -

Words? - 1.11.06

A/N. This _was_ meant to be a light-hearted thing, and really, it started off that way...but as all writers know, what the muse wants, the muse gets, and it just didn't turn out how I envisioned it to, but I like it anyway.


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